Mark 6:52
My tire glazed an ice patch,
spun across the turnpike
and plunged into a gulch of snow
in the lonely hours of the night—
until a lemon plastic jumpsuit waved
in my window— a bald man
wearing citrus, holding chains.
Later, he was an angel—
but then I only believed in
the yellow suit,
in cold coincidence,
in kneeling on Sunday,
and recited prayer—
so I laughed.
Days passed and my young,
spit-filled eyes glimpsed
trees walking,
vats of wine water,
a stray whale,
a wet fleece—
such sundry specters.
Then after years of beholding
the sky-loosed bread,
fat fish-full nets,
water-clogged rocks,
divine winds—
the clouds uncovered
that evening’s apparitions,
the moonlit head,
silvery links,
the golden suit
So that sacred storms
unchained my eyes
to feast on manna
and memory
and marvel—
and I could see
and know
what He meant
by the loaves.